"Mr. Wilders, sir," he told the general, "was wounded as we were breasting the slope."
"You saw him go down? Where was he hit?"
"I hadn't time to wait, sir."
"I should think not," interrupted Colonel Blythe; "but for him, general, we should never have carried the battery. I was dismounted, the men were checked, and just at the right moment the sergeant-major led them on."
"Bravely done, my lad! You shall hear of this again; I will make a special report to the commander of the forces. But there, that will keep. We must see after this poor boy."
"I was just sending off a party for the purpose," said the colonel.
"That's right. You have some idea, I suppose"—this was to McKay—"of the place where Mr. Wilders fell?"
"Certainly, sir. I think I can easily find it."
"Very well; show us the way. And you, Powys"—this was to the aide-de-camp—"ride over to the Royal Lancers and tell Hugo Wilders what has happened."
Then the little band of Good Samaritans set out upon its painful mission. The autumn evening was already closing in; the night air blew chill across the desolate plain; already numbers of men were busy amongst the wounded, assuaging their thirst from water-bottles, covering the prostrate forms with blankets, and lending the surgeons a helping hand.